Chapter 35
Max
I never used to understand people who freaked out after sex.
Post-nut clarity, the walk of shame . . .
these were concepts that made no sense to me.
And there’s really no good reason why I would be feeling them right now.
Last night was pure bliss. It was everything I have been longing for.
Afterwards, we tiptoed back inside and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
I woke a few moments ago, Hunter in bed beside me, his face angelic as he slept. But rather than curling my arms around him, I find myself slipping out of bed without waking him.
Maybe I just need some air.
I pull on some clothes and head out for a walk.
Admittedly, I’m calmer than when I came here yesterday, when I wanted to run off into the wilderness and never return.
But I don’t feel anything close to peace.
As I walk in the bright morning light, the source of my angst emerges in the form of one question – the same question that didn’t really get answered last night.
What now?
This isn’t like the time Hunter and I fumbled around on our wedding night. Looking back, that was little more than a release of tension. We were swept up in the emotion of the occasion and needed to let off some steam. But I can’t say the same about last night.
That was intentional. Inevitable. The culmination of weeks of unspoken desire.
There’s no use denying how I feel about Hunter, especially now I know that his feelings for me go at least a bit beyond the purely physical.
But I don’t want that Athens job any less.
And Hunter has given no hint that he’s interested in moving to Greece with me.
So we’re right back where we started, only with the yearning cranked up to eleven.
Oh god, don’t think about the sex. That was a revelation.
In the past, sex has always been about me reading the other person, working out what they wanted and giving it to them while hoping I hadn’t made a fool of myself.
If they walked away smiling, it was a success.
But I see now it meant I never claimed much space for my own desires.
I recall the way that Hunter hoisted me onto the side in the swimming pool.
He didn’t ask if I wanted it, not because he didn’t care but because he already knew I did, and he wasn’t going to apologise for giving me pleasure.
Man, that felt good. Hunter clearly knew what he was doing, but he didn’t make me feel inferior.
It felt like the start of an adventure, one that could lead me to places and feelings that I’ve never even imagined.
But no. Stop. I mustn’t imagine them. It was just one night.
It doesn’t mean anything. We mustn’t do it again – at least not until we’ve talked about it.
Maybe it didn’t mean as much to Hunter as it did to me.
Either way, I need to know. We need to have a conversation.
And I can totally do that. It’ll be fine.
Completely fine. I’m not freaking out. I’m calm.
I’m collected. The definition of someone not spiralling about sex that definitely didn’t change everything.
I don’t want to scare Hunter and make him think I’ve gone missing again. I text him and say I’ll see him at breakfast. A part of me believes that he’ll have had second thoughts and that will be the end of it.
But when I see him in the dining hall, he walks straight over and kisses me on the lips.
I feel a wave of guilt. That wasn’t a performance.
That came from the heart. He’s all in on this.
I thought he was supposed to be the one putting the brakes on.
As we sit down to breakfast and we’re drawn into a conversation with Henry Herbert or Herbert Henry about the historical evolution of cutlery, Hunter keeps catching my eye and smiling.
Each time, it’s a dagger to my heart. Why can’t I just enjoy this? This isn’t like me.
Needing a breather, I get up from the table and cross over to the coffee machine. Standing there is Baroness Sharon, making herself a triple espresso as her Chief of Staff observes judgementally. She’s more hungover than any of us, but when she spots me, her eyes light up.
‘Max!’ she says. ‘Have you seen the headlines?’
‘What? No.’
She pulls out her phone and shows me. Admittedly, it’s from a paper that is relatively friendly to the government, but it refers to her ‘jumping the gun’ on releasing details of the trade deal to the public.
The article features her quote in the exact wording I suggested.
I’m sure she’ll still get blowback, but it could have been so much worse.
‘Thank god I asked your advice,’ says Sharon, casting a side-eye at her Chief of Staff.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say.
Sharon scoffs. ‘Don’t be silly.’
She leans in so that her Chief of Staff can’t hear. ‘Good luck with the job, Max. They’d be lucky to have you.’
The train ride back is excruciating. The carriage is empty, but when Hunter grabs a bank of four seats, I sit diagonally opposite.
I can’t cope with two hours of gazing into his eyes.
We hardly talk on the journey home. I look out of the window, he scrolls on his phone.
I’m just not ready for what we might conclude if we talk about last night.
It’s only as we get off at Waterloo and walk home to Kennington that we get some life back into us, focusing on a topic that doesn’t involve us: what might have happened between Doily and my dad while we were gone.
I’m not expecting fireworks. This is my dad we’re talking about.
He’s barely shown any interest in dating since my mum died, and in any case, I can’t imagine him taking things quickly.
But the fact that he’s doing this project with Doily is evidence of his interest in her.
There was a spark between them. Alone in the house together, who knows what might have gone down.
When we get home, there’s no sign of my dad’s car.
Hunter and I share a look, then go in search of Doily.
We find her in her office, which looks like the before and after of a home renovation melded into one.
One side of the office is scrupulously organised, the other is messier than ever.
That’s the side that Doily is on. She’s seated on the floor, sorting papers into two piles, one enormous and unwieldy, the other tiny.
Doily hears us enter but doesn’t look up.
‘I’m separating my regional theater programs into essential and non-essential.’
Hunter picks up a playbill from the larger pile.
‘What’s so essential about the Derby Playhouse’s 2006 production of Cinderella?’
‘Do you even have to ask?’ tuts Doily. ‘That was the one where the Fairy Godmother was played by Peppa Pig. Looking back, that was the beginning of the end.’
Hunter places the playbill gently back on the pile.
‘Did my dad—’ I begin.
Doily’s face tightens. ‘He had to leave.’
She continues sorting through the playbills, placing every single one on the essential pile with so much vigour that it’s on the verge of falling over.
Hunter and I share another look.
‘Is everything OK?’ I ask.
Doily says nothing at first, but we wait.
‘I do not understand this obsession some people have with putting everything in order,’ Doily says eventually. She looks up at me. ‘Are you the same?’
I frown. ‘As what?’
‘Your father.’
‘Er, no, actually.’
Doily sniffs as if she doesn’t believe me.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
Doily looks aggrieved. ‘We were alphabetising my clients. Fair enough, you might think, but I wanted to keep a separate folder for the Geralds. Alan agreed to it, but when I got back from glazing my fruitcake, he’d included the Geralds in the F-to-H folder.
After I’d specifically asked him not to. Can you believe that?’
I glance at Hunter. ‘I . . . what did you say to him?’
‘I asked him why he’d ignored my request. He told me—’ Doily pauses to collect herself. ‘He said there was no place for sentiment in filing systems, and if it wasn’t logical, he couldn’t put his name to it.’
Doily is flushed with anger as she recalls it.
Sensing that I’m somehow giving her flashbacks to the cause of her misery, I leave Hunter to console her and head over to pick up Mr Peanut from the dog-sitter.
On the way, I message my dad to get his perspective, but his replies are unrepentant, saying that he can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.
I’m struck by how sad I feel. What was my dad thinking?
Honesty was the last thing Doily needed in that moment.
Whatever bond existed between Doily and my dad was built on a polite acceptance of the other’s eccentricities.
My dad crossed a line and shone a light on a side of Doily she had no interest in having illuminated.
It makes me fear that Hunter and I are too different to work as a couple.
Sure, we have a lot of care and concern for each other, but it’s a constant effort to meet each other in the middle.
Maybe it would be easier if we each found someone who was more similar.
Someone who wanted to live and work in the same country would be a good start.
When I arrive at the dog-sitter, Mr Peanut is delighted to see me.
I’m not in any mood to hold back, so I kneel and let him lick my face as much as he likes, just like the old days.
As we walk home, Mr Peanut immediately settles into our routine, showing as much interest in a discarded kebab wrapper as in the owner he’s just been reunited with.
A silly part of me is offended, but really I envy him this ability to live in the moment.
He wasn’t pining for me all weekend. He accepts what’s in front of him and rolls with it.
I think about the conversation Hunter and I had on our walk at Chevening.
It’s hard not to see Mr Peanut as part of why I am the way I am.
In many respects, I’m just like him, and that’s not necessarily a good thing.
Yes, there is something beautiful about being able to enjoy the present and not worry about what has happened and what’s to come.
But I can’t live like that permanently. If I rush into something with Hunter without thinking about the consequences, I’ll ruin it before it’s had a chance.
Just like that, it’s clear to me what I need to say to Hunter.
This isn’t going to be easy.
When I get home, Hunter is standing in the garden drinking a coffee. The cherry tree has shed almost all its blossom, creating a carpet of petals.
‘It’s such a waste, don’t you think?’ I say.
‘What?’ Hunter asks.
‘The cherry blossom. It lasts for such a short time, and then it just . . . dies.’
Hunter peers at me. ‘What’s up, Max?’
I hesitate. ‘I think it might be a good idea to go back to separate beds.’
Hunter looks surprised, as if the suggestion doesn’t match my mood. Then he takes in what I’m really saying, and his smile fractures. My heart breaks a little.
‘Trust me,’ I say, ‘it’s the last thing I want.’
It feels so hard to say this. There’s nothing I’d like more than to jump into bed with Hunter every night. But it’s not a good idea.
‘Everything is so up in the air,’ I explain. ‘I don’t know how my assessment went. You haven’t heard back about your audition. But more than that . . .’
I pause, and swallow. ‘Some stuff came up this weekend that I need to work through, before we can . . .’
I break off. Seeing Hunter’s face sink into worry lines is devastating.
He nods and turns to leave, perhaps to spare us both any more agony. But I need to make sure there’s no room for doubt.
‘I want you, Hunter. I’m just not ready.’